


Landmines

by LadyFogg



Series: Constantine Oneshots & Prompts [28]
Category: Constantine (TV), Justice League Dark (2017)
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Language, Love, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 03:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15379671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFogg/pseuds/LadyFogg
Summary: After months of not hearing from him, Constantine shows up in the ER, with you listed as his emergency contact.





	Landmines

**Author's Note:**

> Fic Song: Landmines by Bellsaint
> 
> A/N: A commission I wrote some time ago.

 

Exhausted, you blink rapidly, trying to keep your mind on the task at hand. After working double clinic hours, you’re ready to go home and fall into bed. Literally. You want to strip naked and just tumble into soft-pillowy heaven. With nothing more than a mumbled “Good-bye” to your coworkers, you slip your jacket on and make your way to the parking lot. 

The next two days are your days off, and though you're thrilled to catch up on sleep, you can't help but feel a little disappointed. Because what you would really like, is company. The company of a specific person that is. But given that you haven't heard from him in almost a year, you're not getting your hopes up. It's been so long, any hurt feelings have turned to bitterness. So much so that you've sworn to punch him in his handsome face if you ever saw him again. 

You ease your tired body into your car, startling yourself when the engine roars to life, a testament to how truly exhausted you. Maybe you shouldn't attempt to drive home. No one would blame you for taking a quick nap in the break room before heading home. It certainly would be safer. But considering you're already in the car, and your apartment is beckoning, you give yourself a small slap and put the car in drive. 

In hindsight, you should have listened to your instincts because as you're about half-way home, your phone rings. The Bluetooth announces it's your job, and you let out a string of colorful swears. Of course, they would call you back after just working a double. It's not like you need sleep or anything. You answer the call, but before the person on the other line can speak, you cut them off. 

“I’m not coming back to cover a shift,” you say. “I just worked a double and I’m almost home.”

The person on the other line says your name, and you recognize one of your friends from the ER. “We have you down as the emergency contact of the patient who was just brought it,” they say. “He’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Who?” you ask, bewildered. While you have several close friends, none of them would put you down as an emergency contact, mostly because they know what crazy hours you work. 

“A...John Constantine.”

Brakes squealing, you pull over so fast that your car leaves tire treads on the road. The shot of adrenaline is enough to erase any sleep from your mind as you take a second to register what your coworker just said. “Constantine?” you ask. “He said his name was John Constantine?”

"Yeah, before he passed out," they respond. "Your name was on a piece of paper in his pocket. He doesn't have a cell phone or any form of ID."

“Of course he doesn’t. I’m on my way.”

Ending the call, you step on the gas and turn the car around, thankful the road is empty enough to allow such a reckless move. Heart beating wildly in your chest, you all but speed back the way you came. Many scenarios run through your mind as you drive back to the hospital, each one more horrifying than the next. Possession gone wrong? Attacked by cult members? Lost his soul in a bet? Anything is possible when it comes to John Constantine. 

Parking in the ER lot, you barely remember to turn off your car before bolting from the front seat. The waiting room is fairly busy when you enter, and it takes you a moment to worm your way through the numerous people, toward the reception desk. Before you can get there, a nurse recognizes you and flags you down. Relieved as you swallow past the lump in your throat, you follow her down the hall to one of the private rooms tucked in the back. 

“How bad?” you ask. 

“He’s in pretty rough shape,” the nurse explains. “No broken bones as far as we can tell, but someone really did a number on him.”

You hold your breath, trying to mentally prepare yourself for what you're going to find. She opens the door, allowing you to step through first. John is motionless in his hospital bed, face a gruesome mess of lumps, cuts, and bruises. It's startling and makes you pause, breath caught in your throat. His trench coat is draped over the chair by his bedside, but otherwise, he's still wearing the clothes he must have stumbled in with. You catch sight of a bloody, white button up before the nurse sweeps past you to pull the blanket up.

“What happened?” you ask.

The nurse shakes her head. “We don’t know,” she says. “He was barely conscious when he wandered in. We would have called you sooner but we didn’t find your number until we wheeled him in here.”

Fighting back tears, you swallow thickly and nod, wandering over to the empty chair. Shrugging out of your coat, you sink into the seat as the nurse pats you on the shoulder, before making herself scarce. Alone, you bury your face in your hands and let out several shaky breaths. Suddenly all the anger you felt just seems to disappear, replaced by fear. The idea that your last thoughts of him were harsh doesn't sit well, but you push the guilt of the time being. 

Unable to help yourself, you reach out to take his hand between your own, giving it a light squeeze. “You better wake up, Constantine,” you order. “Because we have a lot to talk about and I will never forgive you if you die before we do.”

John doesn’t move, and before you can stop yourself, you end up dozing off by his side, hand clutching his as you slump against the bed. The next time you open your eyes, you’re surprised to find him staring back. One of his eyes is nearly swollen shut, but the other is fine, gazing at you curiously. 

“Hey, Constantine,” you say, voice hoarse from sleep. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”  

John’s purses his split lips, letting out a dry cough before mumbling, “Who are you?”

Heart sinking, the air is practically stolen from your lungs and your head starts to spin. Without a word, you let his hand slip from yours. He forgot you? How could he forget you? Was he really hurt that bad? Was it a spell? 

“John,” you say softly. “It’s me.” You say your name, and yet he still looks at you blankly. “Do you know what happened?”

John winces as he adjusts his beaten body. “It’s all a bit fuzzy,” he says. “I’m not sure. Where am I?”

“In a hospital,” you say. “Don’t try to move. You’re messed up pretty bad.”

With a huff, John falls back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling. After several long seconds of awkward silence, his good eye meets yours. “So, we know each other?” he asks. 

Well, that's a loaded question. Part of you wants to punch him since it's been your desire for the last several months. But another part of you, the nurturing part that led you to this career, takes over and you reach out to gently take his hand. 

“Yes, we do,” you say softly. “We’ve been friends for a very long time.”

That’s oversimplifying your relationship. But how do you tell someone with amnesia that you used to share an intense romance before he disappeared off the face of the earth? It doesn’t necessarily roll off the tongue. 

“Yeah?” he asks. “Figured as much if your name was in my pocket.”

You have questions. So many questions, which he probably can’t answer at the moment. Instead, you squeeze his hand and give him a soft smile. “Yeah,” you repeat. “We’re...we were very close.”

“What happened?” John asks. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” At his confused look, you sigh heavily. “We have spoken in a very long time, and I don’t know why. Well, I have an idea of why. But I don’t know for sure.”

It’s difficult to look at him, not just because his face is a bloody mess of bruises, but because how much it makes your heart hurt. You lean back in your chair and stare up at the ceiling. 

“Humor me.”

Wait a minute, how did he know your name was in his pocket if he passed out so soon after getting to the hospital? Realization dawns on you, and with a glare, your eyes snap back to John’s, only to find him smirking slightly. 

“You son of a bitch,” you growl. 

John’s smirk widens. “Should have seen your face, mate,” he chuckles. “Priceless.”

Anger returning with a vengeance, you slowly rise to your feet, hands balled into fists as you try to keep yourself from hitting John. Not because he's already hurt, but because it wouldn't look for a doctor to hit a patient. No matter how much he has it coming. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you snap. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

John pushes himself up to sit, pushing the blanket away impatiently. “Worth it,” he declares. “Once I realized what hospital I was in, I couldn’t resist.”

So he wasn’t there to specifically see you. That hurts. That hurts more than the fake amnesia. You watch as he takes stock of his injuries, slowly moving his limbs with the occasional wince.

“What happened?” you ask. “You look like hell.”

“Bar fight,” John exclaims. “You should see the other guy.”

You're mid-eye-roll when the door opens and the nurse comes back in, a stack of papers in her hands. "Oh, Mr. Constantine, you're awake," she says. "How are you feeling?"

“Bloody fantastic,” John responds sarcastically. “All better. Ready to go home.”

"Oh, I don't think that's possible right now," the nurse says. "You've sustained many injuries and as policy, we need to keep you overnight for observations."

Knowing that won’t work for John, and wanting to spare your coworker the annoyance that is John Constantine, you speak up before he has a chance to. “You can release him to me. I will take care of him.”

The nurse raises her eyebrow, as does John, but does not comment. Instead, she carefully removes his IVs, while you leave to fill out paperwork. At the desk, your hand shakes as you sign the papers. It's hard to figure out your feelings. On one hand, you're relieved that he's not brain damaged, on the other hand, you want to beat him until he is. 

It doesn’t take you long to fill out the forms, and you’re already standing by the door when John shuffles out, carefully pulling on his trench coat. He sways, and you instantly reach for him, stopping him from slamming into the wall. John tries to wave you off, but you ignore him, carefully looping an arm around his waist and leading him toward the exit. 

He doesn't resist after a moment, coming to the silent realization that he's worse off than he originally thought. After helping him into your car, you climb into the driver's seat and promptly turn to punch him in the arm. 

“OW! BLOODY FUCKING HELL?!” John exclaims, clutching his shoulder. “What was that for?”

“What was that for?  _ What was that for? _ ” you repeat. “Are you fucking kidding me? What do you think it was for?!” Putting the car in drive, you peel out of your parking space, driving in the direction of home. 

“Alright, I deserved that,” John admits, reaching into his coat pocket. He draws out a cigarette, gingerly slipping it between his swollen lips. With a grimace, he lights the end, taking a deep drag before settling against the seat. “Thanks, mate. Just drop me off at the nearest motel.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” you say with a huff. “And roll down the window if you’re going to smoke.”

John listens for once, though he frowns with annoyance. “Are you kidnapping me now?” he asks. 

“No, I’m taking care of you,” is your response. “You were just beaten so bad you were brought to the hospital. Your eye is swollen shut, and you probably have a concussion.” You don’t need to be a doctor to see what bad shape he’s in. 

“Not worth it, squire,” John assures you. “I’ll be just fine on my own.”

Unable to contain your rage anymore, you pull the car over onto the side of the road, making John shout in pain as the sudden stop jerks his bruised body around in his seat. Before he has a chance to speak, you round on him, pointing a threatening finger. 

“Listen up, Constantine!” you snap. “First you leave me without even a fucking note, and I don’t hear from you for almost a year. Then you show up in the hospital where I work, beaten to hell, with my name as your emergency contact, and then you think I’m just going to let you stroll back out of my life? Not going to happen! You’re coming home with me, you’re going to get some rest, and you’re going to let me fucking take care of you,  _ got it?! _ ”

Not waiting for an answer, you turn your body forward once more and pull the car back onto the road, this time driving at a respectable speed. Next to you, John remains silent, which makes you uneasy. He’s never so quiet. Maybe he’s thinking over your outburst, or he’s in too much pain to respond. Either way, the drive to your apartment is done in silence, and it’s not until you pull into your parking space that he finally speaks up. 

“Guess I owe you an explanation,” he says, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his cigarette butt. 

“Yeah, you do,” you snap, cutting the engine. 

John sighs, running a hand through his dirty hair. “Things got...serious,” he finally says, flicking the cigarette out the window. “So I did what I always do. I ran.”

And so the truth comes out. You had suspected as much. Before he left, you two had been spending all your time together. John even lived with you for some time, though that mostly had to do with him being locked out of the House of Mysteries for a while. Or so he said. 

“So you ignored me for months because you were  _ scared _ ?” you ask. “That’s what you’re going with.”

“It’s the truth,” John says. “I was working up the courage to reach out again, that’s why I was in town. The beatdown wasn’t part of the plan.”

Snorting, you open the car door. “It never is,” you say. You climb out of the car and make your way around to the other side, helping John carefully get to his feet. 

This time he doesn't hesitate to lean on you for support. The silence between you is comfortable this time, your anger ebbing and being replaced by exhaustion. It takes some time, but eventually, you help him up to your apartment and into your bedroom. While you leave him to retrieve some ice, he carefully undresses, and you're greeted with the sight of a smattering of bruises across his back and chest. 

No wonder he was having trouble walking. John lets you help him to bed, and once he's settled, you place various ice packs on the worst of the injuries. "Are you hungry?" you ask in a soft voice. 

John shakes his head, clutching ice to his swollen eye. “Come lay down,” he insists. “You look more knackered than I feel.” 

He’s not wrong. The events of the evening, combined with working a double has taken any remaining energy you might have had. Stripping down to your boxers, you practically fall into bed next to him, exactly what you planned to do nearly two hours ago. John chuckles, nudging you with his shoulder. 

Dragging yourself up onto the pillow, you adjust so you’re eye-to-eye with John, reaching out to place a hand on a non-bruises part of his chest. It feels good to have him back, and the anger you felt before starts to dissipate. 

John gives you a relaxed smile, too hurt to return the touch. “I’m sorry, love,” he says. “I know it’s late, but figured you deserve an apology nonetheless.” 

“You’re right, I do,” you agree. “Apology accepted, but only because you’re hurt.”

John chuckles, removing the ice pack from his eye before fixating you with a pleading look. “Kiss me.”

“Are you sure? Your lip looks awful,” you say. “It’s probably going to hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

Carefully, you lean down and place the gentlest of kisses to his lips, sighing with contentment as you close your eyes. John sighs as well, melting underneath you, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. He deepens the kiss, split lip massaging yours as softly as he can. As much as you could lay here kissing him all night, his pain and your exhaustion are more important to attend to. 

“Sleep,” you order when you draw back, nose brushing his. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

“As will I,” John assures you. “I won’t disappear this time.”

"I know," you say. "You're too injured to get far anyway."

With a deep chuckle, John snuggles in close, and you both drift off to sleep moments later. 


End file.
